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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22921312">No God-like Powers of Love, Hope, or Indigestion</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBrilliantLoser/pseuds/TheBrilliantLoser'>TheBrilliantLoser</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Memento Mori (Friendship is Keay) [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>A WHILE, Friendly ghost possession, Friendship is Keay, Gen, Gerry can have little a crush on a metal band frontman. As a treat., Half of this fic Is Jon dealing with an eldritch fever and feeling terrible, Haunting, Jon pulls a stunt like he's from a bad spy movie and deals with the consequences of his actions for., Memento mori, The Beholding, ghost au, he does puke at one point. Use discretion if that bothers you.</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-02-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 05:54:44</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,414</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22921312</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBrilliantLoser/pseuds/TheBrilliantLoser</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Jonathan Sims panics under pressure and ends up picking up an unexpected spectral souvenir from his trip to America.  Gerry Keay gets a new lease on life he didn't expect, or want.  Canon divergence. Friendly ghost possession.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Gerard Keay &amp; Jonathan Sims</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Memento Mori (Friendship is Keay) [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1647388</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>37</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>278</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>No God-like Powers of Love, Hope, or Indigestion</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>What has he done?</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The Archivist had, had... panicked. His captors, the Hunters, Julia and Trevor, had begun to search him for the page, Gerry’s page, before the minor distraction of the Stranger, Mustermann, Max Mustermann as it, no, he, called himself now, regenerating the</span>
  <em>
    <span> wrong </span>
  </em>
  <span>way. At least, at least that’s what he thinks is happening, from the sickening noises emanating from the upper room. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn’t go and check. He’s going to </span>
  <em>
    <span>die. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He’s going to </span>
  <em>
    <span>die here. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He clutches the crumpled page in his pocket. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Parchment, </span>
  </em>
  <span>his mind idly supplies, as it does nowadays. Information without comprehension. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Burn it? Hide it? He considers his options for half an instant, and the grizzly chopping noises in the other room lend colour to his imagination.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>If they find the page on him, or find its half-burned ashes…</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The chopping slows, and he hears them giggle, feral and high, like hyenas. He thinks he can recall something about hyenas only laughing like that when they, themselves, are afraid. No, not the time. Useless Beholding. He’s going to die knowing </span>
  <em>
    <span>Lion King trivia. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The sound of footsteps coming down the stairs...</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He hides the page inside his shirt. </span>
  <em>
    <span>No.</span>
  </em>
  <span> That won’t do. That’s the first place they’ll search. They’ll kill him if they find out.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He hears the doorknob twist and shoves the page into his mouth, to the side of one cheek. No- what is he thinking? They’ll know the moment they ask him something. Light pours into the basement as the door opens. They’re walking towards him, oh, god… He doesn’t think. He just reacts. With some difficulty, he swallows the page. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He never was a wise man. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>-</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>An hour later, Jon is sitting in a loud, dingy, smoky bar with the Hunters. It’s almost impossible to hear what they’re saying over the rev of the motorcyclists driving up. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The Hunters are celebrating, he thinks, and are in high spirits, trying to goad him to drink.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The page sits in his stomach as heavily as his dread. Panic clouds his thoughts and his heart races.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>What has he done? </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Trevor slides him a drink; something golden, in a shot glass. Some kind of whiskey? Julia starts suggesting that perhaps a mixed cocktail is more his speed. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span> He drinks the shot. Then two more.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>A chill runs through him, despite the uneasy warmth of a barely suppressed panic attack and the effects of the alcohol. It burns his scraped throat. He loses himself for a while in a particularly morbid train of thought.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Trevor grins and slaps him on the back, nearly knocking him off his seat. Jon tries to force himself to grin, though it almost certainly comes off as more of a pained, terrified grimace. He tries to steady himself against the bar, closing his eyes and taking deliberate, slow breaths through his nose. The room spins a bit. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He nods to his… his former captors, who seem to be interested in something on their phones, and who are busy gathering their bags. They close their tab, and wave, leaving him… </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Alone. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>His insides protest the alcohol again, and he stands too suddenly, putting out a hand to steady himself. The room was </span>
  <em>
    <span>already </span>
  </em>
  <span>spinning. It gets worse. Panic spiking again, he stumbles towards the grimy bathroom. It’s a small mercy that the cubicle is open, as he stumbles forward and retches unsuccessfully into the toilet. The lack of success instills panic, which begets another attempt. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>After a few tries, Jon is sick.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>His head hurts, and he feels feverish. Probably the alcohol. And the...page. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It’s damaged. He isn’t sure why he thought it wouldn’t be. The ink’s all faded, and it's… more fragmented than he would have liked. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He gathers it up, wrapping it carefully in a paper towel, and jams it in his pocket, breathing through his nose and trying to steady himself. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Another moment, and some dry heaving for good measure, and he stands up, still dizzy, and stumbles out, fumbling for the phone that’s been returned to him, and, after a few calls he is </span>
  <em>
    <span>really </span>
  </em>
  <span>in no mood to make, including one to his bank to assure them, yes, he is in America, yes, he wants to use his card, he books a nearby hotel for the night. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The hotel receptionist only raises her eyebrows as he stumbles into the lobby at 11pm and picks up his room key. Fortunately, she doesn’t comment on anything. Just another drunk, he supposes.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He locks the door the moment he enters the room, then checks the windows, wardrobe, behind the shower curtain, and under the bed. Marginally less on-edge, he drags his sorry self into the bathroom to rinse the taste of bile from his mouth. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Slowly, he begins to feel more like a human being again, and not a punching bag. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Carefully, delicately, he uncrumples the parchment fragments from his pocket. Out of habit or compulsion, he begins to scan the now-faded text again, before, in a burst of stubbornness, he jerks his gaze away.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It hurts not to look, more than he’d like, and the temptation to read it is strong, but he </span>
  <em>
    <span>cannot </span>
  </em>
  <span>risk summoning Gerard again, not... given recent events. Would it even work? Did this destroy it? He grimaces, imagining, briefly, a distorted and ghostly image, as fragmented as the page. He’ll just have to play it safe, then. He’ll, he’ll just have to burn it, once it’s dried. Save the man (the... memory?) one last indignity. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jon exhales through his nose as another fever-chill races through his tired body.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Well Gerard, we made it out.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Despite the increasing waves of malaise that crash into his consciousness like waves on a stormy sea-shore, he picks up his phone and makes arrangements for the trip home. If he’s getting ill he'd really, </span>
  <em>
    <span>really, </span>
  </em>
  <span>rather not do so in America. The travel insurance paperwork might at least frustrate Elias, he thinks spitefully.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Tentatively, he places the damaged page on a towel, and puts it inside the bedside table, shuffling aside the seemingly required bible.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He slumps onto the bed in a dazed haze, heart still palpitating and thoughts still racing from all he’d experienced.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He </span>
  <em>
    <span>really </span>
  </em>
  <span>does not feel well.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He wakes in a cold sweat, in the middle of the night, heart beating frantically in his chest, spinning nightmares fading back into the realm of dreams. The terror remains, though, and he yanks the bedding off the bed and trudges to the small bathroom, pressing the page close to his heart. After some clumsy, half-delirious rearranging, he finds a... less… uncomfortable position, back against the wall, facing the locked door, with his legs curled close and his hands clutching the page close to his chest. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The Archivist drifts into a fitful sleep. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>____</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Gerard Keay is dead.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He knows this much. But since his death and his binding to that dread book, he hasn’t… really... been </span>
  <em>
    <span>aware, </span>
  </em>
  <span>except when summoned. He didn’t really </span>
  <em>
    <span>do </span>
  </em>
  <span>the awareness-when-not-questioned thing. Not… in a way the living can understand, at least. There’s not really words for it, not for that kind of awareness. But he’s aware in a different way now, and frankly, he doesn’t know what to do with it.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He walks the lonely, almost familiar halls of the Archives. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Heh, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he thinks. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Fitting for a scion of The Beholding. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Perhaps, then, this is why he wanders a distorted version of the Institute again in death. It’s strewn with tapes, a complete mess. Half the shelves look beaten up and neglected to the point they might collapse. He tried not to wonder too much, in life, what happens to the dead. Such preoccupations were the domain of his </span>
  <em>
    <span>mum </span>
  </em>
  <span>and those obsessions ruined his life, and haunted him. Literally. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Fuck he hopes he doesn’t haunt anyone if he’s a ghost now. A real ghost, not a shitty book ghost. He pauses for a moment, trying to remember something that seems so recent, yet so distant and foggy. Must be a memory from the book then. The...the new Archivist, he’d torn the page from the tome. Had he burnt it yet? Would he? Was this the result? He tries to focus a little longer, to figure this out, or bring himself to care, but the thought process eludes him. Probably still a page, then. Though the change in… perspective… fuck, he can’t figure out what it </span>
  <em>
    <span>means. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He gets the impression that if he were alive, he’d be frustrated by this fog. Perhaps he’s just dreaming, still in the hospital. No… that’s… not right. He almost trips over an overturned shelf, swearing to himself.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Is this what the Institute looks like, now? Is he bound to the location? To watch silently forever? </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Elias really let the place go to the dogs</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he thinks, and then he trips over another toppled shelf. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He’s somewhere else, when he stands again. A park on a cloudy day. He doesn’t question this. He’s… he’s going on a walk, he supposes. A young, gawky boy with an armful of books walks past, transfixed, with an expression of terror and obsession on his face. The boy turns the page of a simple looking children’s book with a large spider in a red hat depicted on the cover. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>When he does so, Gerard spots an all too familiar bookplate. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>A moment of conflict. It isn’t his job to save every stray that comes across an entity. He’s… he’s on a walk. The child turns another page. Damn it. Damn it! Appearances be damned! He strides purposefully towards the child to knock the book out of his hands. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He’ll be a full grown man, bullying a child. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It’s fine.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Maybe the boy will live.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Someone else beats Gerry to the bullying, snatching the book from the boy’s hands. Some twat of a teenager, maybe seventeen? Eighteen? Much larger and older than the child. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Gerry realizes all at once that the teenager strode </span>
  <em>
    <span>through </span>
  </em>
  <span>him. Like he was... like he was… </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh, right. A ghost. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He watches numbly as Mr. Spider takes the teenager, and the boy stumbles out of his daze in horror. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Well.” Gerard states flatly to no-one. “I guess that solved itself.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He wonders if he can smoke a cigarette as a ghost. He reaches into his coat pocket, and pulls out a crumpled wad of unreadable, damp parchment fragments. Gross. He looks up. He’s in America, at an alarmingly large beaver themed rest stop with Gertrude. He blinks. He’s in a hospital bed, listening, disoriented, in a haze of pain to talk of seizures and medication. He’s back in the Archives. He’s nowhere, again, in the dark, and doesn't even have a chance to feel confused about it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>-</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jon wakes slowly to a cramp in his arm, then startles completely awake, thrashing and tossing off the duvet, hitting his head on the side of the bathtub. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Why was he…??</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>America. Hotel. Right. The pain in his head starts to fade a little bit, though he still feels god-awful. He stands up slowly, trying to stave off the dizziness, still clutching what was left of the page. He staggers forward to get some water, and clean himself up a little before his flight, relieved that he seems to be feeling somewhat better after the events of last night. Perhaps he avoided some sort of… cursed book disease... Perhaps he just couldn’t handle alcohol. It would be a mercy if it was mundane.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He frowns at the page crumpled in his hand, and shoves it in his pocket, taking it outside the hotel. Jon walks for a while before having to stop and rest, feeling lightheaded for some reason. He kneels, and takes the parchment from his pocket. It’s dry now, finally. He looks around. An empty field, strewn with rubbish, in America. Somehow it doesn’t feel right. Not quite a fitting grave. He takes the lighter from his pocket, and flicks it a few times, then hesitates. This really isn’t the right place to do this. Gerry… Gerard, (Jon isn’t his friend, not after </span>
  <em>
    <span>that) </span>
  </em>
  <span>deserves a bit of dignity. He at least deserves to be burned back home.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The flight home is… unpleasant. Jon attempts to keep himself calm, but the malaise returns with a vengeance. He tries to maintain his composure, eventually drifting into a fitful sleep. His dreams are strange and fevered. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>-</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Somehow, despite the fever and the accompanying disorientation, Jon manages to navigate his way through Heathrow airport. He staggers out the arrivals door, bracing against the extended handle of his suitcase. He sways a bit as he stands, blinking desperately to clear his aching head and holding the silvery railing to make sure he doesn’t fall. What...what’s next? Why is this so difficult? The halls around him feel vaguely familiar, and his… confusion at the familiarity further disorientates him. Where is he again? He, he needs to sit down for a while, that’s all. And so he does, though he isn’t sure for how long, his thoughts seeming to spiral and glitch from one overly vivid image to another like the halls of The Distortion. Oh, now </span>
  <em>
    <span>that’s</span>
  </em>
  <span> a concerning thought.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Eventually, he looks up. And then, suddenly, he Knows Officer Tonner is waiting for him nearby, holding a hastily written sign that reads “John Sims”. Where is he again? Oh, Heathrow. Back in London? Who’s the woman with the sign? Is that relevant? Oh! Yes, yes it is, that’s for him. He rubs his eyes at his confusion at that revelation. She’d misspelled it. That must be it. He trudges forward in a manner he hopes comes across as simply jetlagged, so that she won’t realize he feels ready to pass out at any step. That’s… important, yes, important. He has something to do. What is it again? He always has something to do. He’s clutching the keys to...something. Oh, yes, the storage unit! That’s what. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He staggers into someone, and mutters an apology. Oh, she’s taking his bag? He looks up, and sees the dispassionate face of Officer Tonner, who’s tossing her sign in the bin. For the briefest moment, her gaze meets his and, underneath the weary contempt, he thinks he Sees something wild and obsessive. </span>
  <em>
    <span>The Everchase; The Hunt</span>
  </em>
  <span>, his mind… no, the Beholding, supplies. She’s taking his bag away… He follows after her, to the short stay carpark. It’s more difficult to keep up with her clipped pace than he’d like, made even more so in this … jetlagged, yes, jetlagged state. Jet lag! Jet lag is what causes him to pause, swaying slightly, and to squint as he remembers this particular area of carpark. A woman, short, with grey hair pulled into a tight bun, looks up at him, expression unreadable, squinting in the afternoon sun. Why is everything so dark…? Oh, right, his sunglasses. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The moment’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>deja vu</span>
  </em>
  <span> is shattered by a firm hand taking his wrist and dragging him a few steps towards the parked car. For an instant he struggles, panicked, curling his hand into a fist and then opening it, jerking out of the grasp as a practiced reflex. And then he sways and stumbles, falling to his knees. The ground under his knees and hands shocks him back into the present, and he looks up at his escort. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The next thing he knows, he’s half-dragged into the passenger seat of a car by strong hands, though he doesn’t panic this time. Officer Tonner flinches momentarily when she first lifts him from the ground, eyes widening and nostrils flaring. Jon blinks at her, confused. He’s pretty sure he wanted to tell her something…? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>-</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The car ride back to the Institute is spent fading in and out of delirious consciousness. Apparently at some point he actually managed to ask Officer Tonner to drive to the Institute, and not take him home, because he startles awake again when they pull into the carpark. She quickly reaches for her phone, tapping the mute button as the last clips of what sounds like… dialogue, a soap opera, perhaps, fade. He blinks a few times, trying to clear the dizziness, and goes to find Melanie and Martin, relieved to find himself feeling a bit better. Whatever apocalypse-antidote lies in the storage unit, it would be good to have more people present to witness it. He shivers suddenly in the evening breeze, though whether from cold or the newest wave of malaise he’d hoped was over, he doesn’t know. He shoves his hands into his trouser pockets, cursing the gaudy, tie-dye shirt he currently wears for not having long sleeves. He immediately removes his hands from his pockets. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>God</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he needs to burn that as soon as possible. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>-</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He reconvenes with Melanie and Martin at Melanie’s car, curtly explaining his discoveries in America. He tries not to let his annoyance at their questions show, lest they ask him if he’s feeling alright. He’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>fine. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He continues to be </span>
  <em>
    <span>fine </span>
  </em>
  <span>as he realises he’s slumped against the window, suddenly too exhausted to sit up straight, eyes heavy, shivering despite the warmth of the crowded car. Distantly, he’s aware of Martin’s concerned voice.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>-</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Strangers jostle against him as his eyes adjust to the dimness of the red-bathed room. The air smells of sweat and alcohol. Silhouetted arms are raised as the crowd chants, then cheers. Long haired men, eyes shadowed, with dark cloaks, stride to the center of the room. The chanted word grows louder as more arms are raised, as, underneath the lull of the crowd, a recording of an… invocation, perhaps, in some language (Latin? Latin!) plays. He focuses on the recording, trying to parse it, though the increasing distraction of the music that accompanies it combined with the loudness of the crowded room disorientates him. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Wolf. </span>
  </em>
  <span>The word rises from the crowd, repeated in increasing fervor. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Wolf, wolf, wolf, wolf... </span>
  </em>
  <span>Jon considers the implications. Many statements about the Hunt compare its avatars to wolves, and there certainly was a resemblance… Oh! He’s grinning now! He feels himself raise an arm. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Wolf, wolf, wolf! </span>
  </em>
  <span>The cloaked figure, the focus of this gathering, laughs, and raises a chalice, stalking around the room with a grin. The crowd cheers, suddenly, and he finds himself cheering too, and two similarly garbed figures join the main focus, as suddenly, the room is charged with an intense wave of sound. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b>Satani, Satani, in amus dignita-</b>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jon finds himself slightly alarmed at his lack of alarm-</span>
</p>
<p>
  <b>-e vade retro sagitta.</b>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Latin again? </span>
  <em>
    <span>Vade</span>
  </em>
  <span>, to go? </span>
  <em>
    <span>Sagitta</span>
  </em>
  <span>- arrow? This could genuinely be Hunt related...</span>
</p>
<p>
  <b>Die, die, die tonight! Sanctified with dynamite! </b>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh</span>
  </em>
  <span>! It’s… it’s… Relief washes over his terror, which itself is hovering, overlaying the </span>
  <em>
    <span>thrill</span>
  </em>
  <span> of the atmosphere. It’s a concert. The crowd belts out the chorus and he feels a familiar but frustratingly unplaceable voice join them. He considers why he might be here… </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He drifts through the remainder of the… vision, disorientated, elation and recognition occasionally punctuating his fevered rationalising, until the vision comes into focus again near the end. He stands, drenched in sweat, heart beating and muscles beginning to ache, in a queue, and feels himself grin again, as he approaches the one who he’s, by this point, ascertained is the main singer of this… band. Once more he listens to himself speak in an excited, nearly familiar voice, a voice full of long, drawn out vowels... </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He feels himself speak to the band members, who’ve just finished signing a poster. Oh, his face is warmer than a moment ago.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Hallo!” he says, suddenly hyper aware of the hair stuck to his face. The inflection of the voice sounds frustratingly familiar, though recognition eludes him… </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Ich bin ein grosser Fan, es war ‘ne tolle Show!” he says excitedly, the words coming easily, though he finds he doesn’t understand them. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The man looks up, putting the marker down. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey! Immer nett einen deutschsprachigen Fan zu treffen, bezonders in England! Woher kommst du?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He feels himself break into a grin.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Äh, Ich bin Englisch, eigendlich. Meine Mutter hat mir ein bisschen Deutsch beigebracht. Ich wollte nur fragen, ob jemand meine T-shirt signieren könnte?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The man smiles, corpse-paint crinkling at the edges of his eyes. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Ja, natürlich. Name?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He feels himself raise a hand, startled for a moment at the perception of it in his peripheral vision, but why should he be? He tucks long hair behind his ear. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Äh, Gerry, bitte.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He hands the man a dark shirt with an illustration of a figure standing against a full moon on it, the details indecipherable in the dim room. The man scribbles a signature on the moon, and focuses for an extra moment on doodling something above of it. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay, ich hab’ auch einem kleinen Aüglein daneben gepinselt, es fällt mir auf das du vielleicht Augen mögt. Übringens, geiles Tatoo!” the man says, handing the shirt back. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The marker’s looping scrawl is nearly indecipherable against the printed moon, but he notices a little eye above it. Oh. He must be having a dream influenced by The Eye. That makes...sense. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Suddenly, despite this conclusion, Jon feels the smile renew, along with the heat in his face. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Danke!” he replies a bit too loudly. “Halz-und-beinbruch auf der Tournee!” he says, sing-song, with a wave, his hand startling him again, turning around... </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>-</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jon wakes to the sound of tyres on gravel and the last rays of the bright afternoon sun reflecting through the car window, before they fade as quickly as the fevered dream images of the dark room, and memories of speaking a language he could not comprehend. He blinks, squinting against the evening light. Martin asks if he’s alright and Jon waves his concern away, not up to speaking just yet. He begins to wonder about the implications of the fading dream. He’s… fairly certain that was German. And for all his impulsive panic, he isn’t an idiot. He knows whose hand that was, whose memory that likely was. If it was a memory, and not… some bizarre, guilty dream, from all the stress. He grimaces, stifling his panic at the thought that he might have attained a few stray memories from... well... He </span>
  <em>
    <span>really </span>
  </em>
  <span>needs to burn that page, as soon as possible. At least his head feels better. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>-</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Well. The plastic explosives are a surprise. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>-</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As Martin and Melanie return to the car, carefully carrying sports bags of C4, Jon lingers behind at the storage unit. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m- I’m going for a cigarette. Don’t follow me! Can’t, erm, risk anything igniting,” he explains smoothly, walking backwards a few paces to make sure they don’t follow him.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>As soon as he’s sure they won’t follow, he walks behind the unit, and kneels, flicking his lighter against the bundled fragments of page. They don’t light. He blinks, the glare of the evening sun blinding him for just a moment. He grimaces, and with a muttered apology, adds a bit of wind-strewn paper to the pile, flicking the lighter again. The fragments don’t catch immediately, but once they do, they light quickly, smouldering to ash in a matter of seconds. Probably, probably the whiskey? Ugh. It shouldn’t have happened like that. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>At least… at least Gerard would never have to know, now.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Something like grief, or horror, twinges deep within his chest. It’s nearly done burning now, the last embers fading. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m sorry. Rest in, uh. Just… rest.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Gerard deserved better. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The last curls of smoke from the… parchment, make him feel ill. His heart is beating too fast again. At least… at least it was done now. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Christ, he actually needs a cigarette. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The evening breeze picks up, carrying the ash away. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jon focuses on breathing, deeply through his nose, trying to steady the panic and guilt. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was done. He squints at the silhouette of Melanie by the car, the hazy orange light of the sunset framing her shadow. For a moment he imagines the sun to be the eldritch Eye that, for better or, more likely, worse, influences his life now. He gets the impression it might be angry, no, furious at him for destroying… all that knowledge. He supposes he’s grateful the act still came easily enough. Will still mostly his own, then. He stands there a moment more, as the last of the ash scatters in the carpark, and turns to return to the Institute. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>-</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He can do nothing but watch as hands that are not his gather up the fragmented remains of the page, </span>
  <em>
    <span>his page</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and flick the lighter. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>What did you do, Jon? Why am I here?</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He can do nothing but watch from behind Jon’s smudged glasses, as he- no, Jon, as Jon kneels down, on knees that still sting from his fall, earlier that…day, bundles the fragments together, and flicks the lighter. The ridge of metal presses against his burnt and scarred thumb. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He can do nothing but watch as the page catches, slowly, at first, then with startling  speed.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Probably the whiskey? </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The thought seems to seep into his mind unbidden, guilt permeating it. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Ah. This is it. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He should be dying now. Finally. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The last of the flames die down, and the glowing embers begin to fade as the wind picks up, scattering the ashes. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He can do nothing but feel as Jon takes a slow breath through his nose. He feels Jon's lungs expand, filling with cold air. He smells the nauseating scent of the burning page on the wind. The many layered painting of sensation that is living, </span>
  <em>
    <span>physically</span>
  </em>
  <span> living, threatens to overwhelm him after so long without a body. Jon begins to speak and he feels the vibration of vocal folds and the movement of facial muscles come together in an intricate dance. A dance performed so effortlessly by the living.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m sorry,” he says, and Gerry is nearly overwhelmed by the pangs of grief and guilt that accompany those words. “Rest in, uh...” A hesitation. A breath. Cold air in, pause, out. Three heartbeats. “Just...rest.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The last wisps of smoke rise from the parchment, and the scent of burning flesh summons memories which should be fading now, should be forgotten. He should be dying. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>needs </span>
  </em>
  <span>to die. Why isn’t he dying? </span>
  <em>
    <span>Why isn’t he dead!? </span>
  </em>
  <span>Jon’s heart beats more rapidly in his chest, one-two-three-four-five, and Gerry finds himself growing more irritated with every -ten-eleven-twelve-thirteen-fourteen- beat.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Shut up!</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The final, glowing ember dims, and fades. The breeze picks up, carrying it away. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>German and translation graciously provided by my friend J.  Thanks, J!<br/>______________<br/>______________<br/>Gerry: Hello! I really love your music, it was a great show!<br/>Band Dude 1; Hey! Always nice to meet a german speaking fan, especially in England! Where’re you from?<br/>Gerry: Nope, I’m from England actually. My mother taught me a little German. (changing the subject) I just wanted to ask if anyone would be willing to sign my shirt?<br/>Band Dude: Yeah, of course. Name?<br/>Gerry: Uh, Gerry, please.<br/>Band Dude: Okay, I drew in a little eye next to it, I get the sense you might like eyes. Awesome tattoos by the way.<br/>Gerry [smiling]: Thanks! Break a leg on tour and all that!<br/>--<br/>This is the introductory work to a much larger series, organized at the Friendship is Keay tumblr.</p>
<p>https://friendship-is-keay.tumblr.com/</p>
<p>--</p>
<p>Special thanks to Rowen, my cowriter for this AU, and dear friend.<br/>Without their encouragement, prolific writing, creativity, and editing skills, this would not exist.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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